We're Ruined But We're Still Building
by ayodelle
Summary: After his traumatic junior  year, Kurt gets to spend the summer holidays in Barcelona. There he meets a local boy, Blaine. He offers Kurt a profitable deal, asking for one simple thing in return. The catch is - he refuses to reveal what the thing is.
1. Chapter 1

Written for this prompt at GKM.

**Prologue.**

On the third step a sudden urge to turn away hits him out of the blue.

When he hits the fourth step, the realization that he _can't _washes over him like a cold shower.

Tenth step and he feels the need to grip the railing tighter, harder, to cling to it desperately, because maybe the firm metal will remind him that this _is real_, this is real and so are all the implications.

Next step, a dark silhouette of a man creeps into his mind. Middle aged, a baseball cap on his head, smiling, caring, nodding in an attempt to brace himself and open his mouth.

His dad. The silhouette fades away as Kurt closes his eyes and then it's a memory. His dad swallows once, twice. After the third gulp he starts speaking, slowly, emphasizing his words every so often by squeezing Kurt's shoulders, a gentle pressure.

"I want you to promise me one thing, kiddo. That you'll go and you won't look back and for two short months you'll forget all that's happened this year. I can't stand to see you look so soulless, Kurt. Not knowing what to do, it's killing me inside. So. Promise me you'll go and try to enjoy yourself, have fun, act like the goddamn teenager you are. Can you manage that?"

His answer was a yes, single yes with a shaky nod and then they proceeded to hug at the airport, the countless strange faces around them disappearing into thin air. It was only his father and Kurt, arms wrapped around one another, faces buried in each other's necks. Kurt could feel his eyes stinging, his dad's hands clapping him on the back and then he picked up his bag and with a sprinkling of waves and forced smiles he vanished in the airport gate.

The fifteenth step comes and goes and he determines that _no_, he isn't allowed to second-guess a decision like this.

And on the twentieth step he comes face to face with a dark, wooden door, marked by number 3. In a heartbeat, he lets out the breath he's been holding and sets two pairs of bags on the floor, only to pick them up again when a short, dark-haired woman emerges from the staircase.

"Just a second, honey, I know I've put them in here," she murmurs as she fights the material of her beige shorts, looking for a clanging bunch of keys. It's a tough fight, considering she's holding her own share of Kurt's luggage. In the end she grins triumphantly and unlocks the apartment door with a soft click.

"Go on," she encourages him with a smile and Kurt obeys, reciprocating her enthusiasm with a small smile of his own.

Once he's inside, the atmosphere suddenly changes. The air stays humid, but a wave of coolness hits him in the face and the low buzz of a working air conditioner fills the room. The hallway's spacious, almost empty. To Kurt's pleasant surprise it's connected to the rest of the flat not by doors, but by built-in arches. Once he sets the bags down and takes a small walk down the halls, he involuntarily hums in approval. His aunt Diana had a knack for interior designing; there was no denying the fact. It was her occupation, after all.

"I'm sorry I couldn't tidy up a bit more properly, but I've returned from Madrid yesterday evening and frankly, I've been exhausted," she apologizes once she closes the door behind herself and turns to face Kurt.

"If this is what this place looks like when it's untidy, then I'm failing to picture it when it matches your tidiness standards," Kurt professes with a genuine smile as he strolls towards Diana, wrapping her up in a hug.

"Thank you for taking me in, again," he says once they part, trying to look directly into her eyes, without success.

She's the least intimidating person he has the chance of knowing, despite her 6 feet and 2 inches. Always laughing, smiling, her cheeks red and eyes sparkling, but… But there's a certain ruggedness to them that makes it difficult to maintain eye contact. A sense that she saw the world, she saw it _all_, and she didn't like what she saw.

"No problem, Kurt, you know you're always welcome here," she replies, pinching his cheekbones softly. "God, I can't believe you're eighteen already!"

Standing here and looking at her, the figure he's seen in so many childhood videos, he can't believe it either. So much has changed…

"Wanna take a small tour?" she challenges after a short pause. After an eager nod, Kurt's swept into her hold as she links arms with him and starts dragging him towards the nearest room. Kitchen, apparently. "So, I wanted to bring a little American dazzle to this flat, but keep it simple and traditional, for the most part. Spain's architecture is really rich and considering the Neo-Mudéjar movement also originated from Spain, I decided to…"

Maybe his dad was right, maybe he needs this. The distance, the drastic change of culture and environment, a sense of being away from the problems and people that haunt him in his dreams. No, _Kurt_ knows he needs this.

But why, even with aunt Diana by his side, with the whole Barcelona city lying in from of him, unexplored, why does it feel like such a hard task, to _let go_?


	2. Chapter 2

Okay, here comes the first real chapter. I want to send a huge thank you to everyone who left me a comment, liked my story or simply read it. And an ever bigger thanks goes to my beta, M (betabitches tumblr), who's been incredibly helpful and this chapter would be an absolute pain to read without her help.

**One.**

When Kurt's fourth day in Barcelona rolls around, he becomes acquainted with a surprising new talent.

He's always prided himself on how he keeps things organized. Unlike his schoolmates, he never had to make excuses about why his room was in a mess. He's used to keeping an appointment book, has never had any problems with managing his time, and he's been praised repeatedly for his structured schoolwork.

But now, as he sits down to a familiar wooden desk with a tawdry floral tablecloth, he starts to curse his natural instincts. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. Hell, only four days – four short days consisting of listening to Diana's instructions and unpacking his luggage. Four extremely _busy_ days being dragged up and down through Barcelona till his aunt was finally satisfied.

Much to his own dismay, four days was all it took for Kurt to set up a routine.

"¿Qué le gustaría ordenar, señor?" comes a soft voice from his right. Kurt turns around to face a young woman, Maria. Her face is framed by dark hair, currently dangling from the sides in short pigtails. He already knows she's the owner's daughter. He also knows that she loves to sing – unfortunately – and that she has no problems working with a hangover.

"¿Me puede poner una taza de café?" he responds, and Maria smiles. Although they haven't talked outside the casual phrases between a waitress and a customer, it seems like they've formed a light bond. She knows what order to expect and he knows what to expect from the coffee.

"Un momento, por favor," she says with an understanding nod, and then she's gone, lost in a haze of kitchen equipment, steam, and a rich collection of smells that range from sweet to spicy.

Back when he was just getting to know Diana's apartment and its immediate surroundings, his aunt caught him in her living room, unprepared.

_Huge smile. Crinkled eyes. Outstretched hands. That could mean only one thing – she had a surprise. _

_And what a surprise it was. He always knew his aunt had an affinity for shopping. Because she was living on another continent, it was, in fact, one of the first traits he ever connected to her. The Christmas gifts she sent were always special and one could tell she paid an arm and a leg for them. Right now, she was standing in front of him, holding out a plastic card. _

"_It's a travel card – for the metro. It's valid for ninety days and you can travel wherever you want, whenever you want. Unlimited." She spoke casually, certainly not with the weight of such a gift. Kurt made his research on Barcelona's public transport and metro passes certainly weren't cheap. _

"_I - I don't know what to say," he stammered. She had really struck him speechless. "Can I… cover the expenses somehow? You didn't have to invest so much in me."_

"_Don't be ridiculous, Kurt," she chided gently. "It's a gift." She smiled again, all teeth and vibrant energy._

"_Still – I, just… Thank you, aunt Di, this means a lot," he managed, still reeling._

_He already owed his aunt so much and despite their shared blood, he kind of felt like owing to a stranger. _

_Diana and his mother had been close. He remembered having countless debates with her when he was younger. He even invited her to one of his tea parties – an honor he offered only a small selection of people. His father had described how Kurt adored her and that the sentiment was mutual. But they hadn't been all that close since he'd entered adolescence. A few phones calls a year were all he heard of her. And now he was staying in her apartment, eating her food and her free time. The idea that soon he'd be traveling out of her budget as well left him with mixed feelings._

"_It's nothing, honey, really," she murmured after a tight hug, biting her lip suddenly. "There's just one more thing I wanted to tell you."_

_He nodded._

"_Please, _always_ let me know of your whereabouts, okay? You're eighteen already and I know this is more for you than just visiting your aunt, so I'm gonna give you as much freedom as I can. But Barcelona's a big city and it's easy to get lost - even easier to get lost in all the wrong places." She squeezed his hand. "I don't need to know everything, but a phone call that you're heading to Sagrada Família would be nice."_

_Kurt let out a relieved sigh. He'd already managed to interpret her troubled expression in hundreds of catastrophic ways, and this was all it was – a wholly reasonable request._

"_Don't worry, aunt Di, I'll have my cell ready at all times," he promised. She just smiled. "For now, could you just give me some tips as to where can I find some great coffee and not get sunburned?"_

She did, of course.

And that's how he ended up sitting here, in a cozy Spanish restaurant with grimy walls and ambient music playing from the wall speakers.

To his own surprise, he doesn't mind. (Much.) For all the things the restaurant lacks in appearance, it compensates with in food, drinks, and kind employees. And, of course, the view is absolutely magnificent.

Barcelona is, without a doubt, a lively city. The streets are almost always occupied, and there isn't a time of the day when the hustle and talk would diminish. For all he had dreamed about it in his fantasies, once he sees the crowded beach of _La Barceloneta_, Kurt quickly decides that walking by the sea and watching the sun set in solitude was out of question.

But his aunt is not only, apparently, well-off; she also has a wealth of experience. Having lived in the city for eight years, she navigates him to a corner of the seaside that even some of the natives don't know about. It's still fairly populous, but, in comparison to _Barceloneta_, it felt like comparing Alaska and California.

_La Esperanza_ – the restaurant – is situated only a few miles from the beach, providing its visitors with a direct view of the ocean. Plants covered every side of the two-floor building, from beautiful burgundy bushes to wild poison ivy. From what Kurt has seen during his stay here, it always has its fair share of customers and the approach of the employees is almost family-like towards everybody – save for a few exceptions.

Kurt is one of them – pale and quiet, sitting at one of the furthest tables in the main room. The few Spaniards who approach him act friendly; he had yet to encounter somebody who wouldn't give him at least a smile. But the difference is there, striking, between his graceful, cool demeanor and their heart-on-one's-sleeve attitude.

It still bothers him a bit. Not so long ago, he had been judged and ridiculed on a daily basis, just because he was different - and the wounds of his psyche haven't healed yet. He wouldn't be in Barcelona if they have.

But he finds a way to overcome his initial feeling of sticking out. The second time he came to _Esperanza – _now, shortly after noon – he ordered a cup of coffee, snatched up a pen, and opened his notebook.

As Maria returns to the room, setting a steaming mug on his table, Kurt's right at the third step of his routine, opening the notebook to page seventeen.

It's Act 1, Scene 4 of his summer musical, 'Pip-Pip-Hooray!,' focusing on the life of one Pippa Middleton. Right now, the oft-overlooked younger sister finds out about Kate's and William's relationship and falls into inner turmoil. On one hand, she's happy for her sister, but, on the other, she's tired of living in Kate's shadow. Cue _Summer Dialogues with my Conscience_.

"Gracias," he tells Maria before declining her further offers of actual food. One fix of coffee is all he really needs to get his creative juices flowing.

Trying to find a way to foreshadow the royal wedding, his mind flies to the day it was broadcast on TV. He had organized a sleepover with Mercedes and Rachel, the three of them eating ice cream and discussing William's impending baldness and the female guests' many creative dresses. Even now, that wedding is still one of the brightest memories he has of last year.

Is that pathetic? Maybe. But it wasn't entirely up to him.

"What rhymes with 'necklace'?" he mutters, keeping his words only to himself. None of his brainstorming methods seem to be working. He grabs the mug and takes a large sip, focusing his gaze on the space outside the window. When everything else seems to fail, it's always a good idea to turn to nature for help.

And yes, the sea's beautiful. It's gleaming in the afternoon sun, waves rolling into the shore. He can hear the birds chirping, even through the annoying song coming from the nearest speaker. A pot of begonias is sitting on the windowsill, directly within his reach. Nature surrounds him and begs for him to take notice of it.

But soon, he has eyes just for one thing, and it isn't a flowerpot.

One of the reasons this beach isn't as crowded as its more popular counterparts is the fact that there's a small dock built in its center. Boats anchor there practically at any time of the day, and so it doesn't make for a good swimming spot.

Kurt lowers his gaze. _Focus_, he orders himself. _Out of question_, his subconscious drawls. _Just one more look_, a part of him promises, and then he's looking up again, his eyes widening.

There, stepping out of one of the boats – a boy. From the distance, he's pretty much just a silhouette, most of his face shrouded. In other circumstances, there would be no reason for Kurt to pay him any attention.

But, for that to happen, the boy would have to start wearing a shirt.

Okay, enough. He refocuses his attention back to the tragically empty notebook page. A distraction is nice. It's welcome. He doesn't have a problem with distraction – as long as said distraction doesn't make him flush.

It actually isn't the first time he's seen this particular distraction. Being a four-day regular guest at _La Esperanza_, he's already had the pleasure of witnessing this person a few times. However, until now, the boy was just a nice-looking stranger with curly hair. And shirts. Kurt had deduced that he was something akin to a mechanic - he kept jumping from one boat to another, fixing some ropes and checking the anchor before disappearing from Kurt's view, holding a tool kit all the while.

Okay, so maybe he's spent quite some time observing the _distraction_. Maybe he's even taken notice of how the _distraction_ always beams, no matter which boat owner he's speaking with. And maybe, just maybe, he even thought about getting closer to said distraction, but…

He is still Kurt Hummel. Ogling strange Spanish boys isn't even an option, and so is fantasizing about them. The only thing that matters is the damned blank page of his script – that and that _only_.

Having an extremely strong will, he actually manages to write two and a half pages before giving up. Between his stubborn attempts at rhyming, he's found a way to justify his non-composing behavior. There's nothing bad about a reward system. One hundred words, and one look; another hundred, another look.

And it would have worked out well if the object of his interest hadn't already left the beach while he had been configuring his master plan.

Kurt lets out a sigh. Is it relief or disappointment? He refuses to dwell on it. Instead, he grips his pen tighter, more forcefully. He has to finish at least one more scene today.

As if he didn't have enough challenges, his father's words keep slipping in and out of his mind in various shapes and sizes. Is this the way to "make the most of his say" – writing a musical parody about British royalty?

On one hand, he definitely enjoys it. Writing feels powerful and he needs to feel powerful – in the mental state the last year has left him, he needs it more than anything. On the other hand, it also feels silly. He's in _Barcelona_ – for many, a city of wonders, a city of opportunities. For many, it's also just a dream. And he is right here, in this city. _Writing an amateur musical script_.

Kurt shakes his head, willing his meandering thoughts away. It's only his fourth day; the summer's just getting started. Just because he wants to spend his time relaxing with something familiar doesn't mean he'll do it all summer. It doesn't even mean he'll do it tomorrow. Right now, he's content and that's all that matters, isn't it?

Somewhere between pages twenty-six and twenty-eight, he lifts his eyes again. For once, he really takes some time admiring the graceful way in which the sea meets the sand. But then, something strange catches his attention and the watery waves are quickly forgotten.

A couple is walking down the beach. Intertwined hands keep swinging between the pair, back and forth, back and forth. They're walking so close to each other that their shoulders could be glued together. And nobody gives them a second glance; nobody rewards them with catcalls and insults.

The two girls pass group after group of people, and nobody cares.

Except Kurt. His heart leaps at the sight; his whole body turns towards the window.

Knowing about Spain's tolerance and seeing it with his own eyes is a big difference. While the couple doesn't know about his existence, doesn't have a clue that a boy is staring at their retreating backs almost piercingly, they affect Kurt strongly, permanently.

What would he have given to see this scene several months ago? Maybe it could have saved him hours of watching 'It Gets Better' videos on the internet. Maybe it could have prevented him from feeling so powerless, so small and insignificant. Maybe it could have reminded him that life isn't just _McKinley High, Ohio. _

It's a cliché, and he knows he shouldn't judge a whole country based on one piece of evidence, but, once his heartbeat returns to normal, he can feel it.

A lingering sense of… _hope_.

Another day passes, and Kurt finds himself sitting in the exact same spot. His coffee's been already ordered; the notebook is open and ready for Kurt's plan of action. Honestly, the only thing different about this scene is Kurt's outfit. A T-shirt striped in creams and designer khaki pants – not his usual attire, but, combined with golden suspenders and a straw hat , it's fashionable enough.

"Pido disculpas por el retraso, señor."

Kurt whips around, surprised. Maria seemed to be in exceptionally good condition today – but, unless she's caught a vicious flu or the effects of being a chronic smoker have hit her all of a sudden -

Of _course_ it isn't Maria. The low, manly voice was enough of a clue on its own. But once Kurt's brain processes the image in front of its owner, it also momentarily loses all skills of human communication.

It's the distraction. _The_ distraction.

"No p-problema," he finally says, stammering a little. His mostly self-taught Spanish is nowhere near perfect, but it's usually easy for him to speak and for the locals to understand. With a stutter, though, he'll be surprised if the boy isn't confused.

"Aquí está tu café," the boy says instead, the corners of his mouth upturned in a warm smile. Yesterday, Kurt had thought that the boy's shirtless torso was his most attractive trait. Face-to-face with his smile, he realizes just how wrong he was.

He braces himself to speak again, calling back his lost sense of decorum, and, just when he opens his mouth, their eyes meet.

It's just a second of time, the briefest little look. Kurt doesn't even have a chance to lose himself in the stranger's eyes; he averts his gaze that quickly. But it's enough. It's enough time for Kurt's throat to dry up, to send shivers down his spine. He starts seeing the hazel tinge with every blink, and, and…

That's simply not acceptable.

"Blaine, ¿qué estás haciendo?"

A sharp, loud voice cuts through the air, turning every single head in the restaurant towards the speaker (even Kurt's, despite the great distance between his mental processes and his physical actions). The shout came from a surprisingly small man with olive skin and wrinkled face. He balances on the threshold between kitchen and dining room, his palms raised in question.

But there's no menace in his face – in fact, it seems genuinely pleased.

"Estoy ayudando a María, ha ido a vomitar," comes the boy's – Blaine's – answer, several times softer, but resolute. He leans against Kurt's table as he speaks, hands gesturing to the bathroom door apologetically. From what Kurt gathers, Maria had to flee to the nearest toilet to prevent losing some disgusted customers.

"Todo está bien; ya estoy aquí," Maria calls just then, the bathroom doors swinging dangerously as she hurries towards her temporary substitute. Water dribbles down her chin and her hair stands up in every direction, but she doesn't seem to mind. Without any further explanation, she points at the waiter's apron and he takes it off, obeying.

"Ya puedes volver a tu trabajo, Blaine," Maria orders him stubbornly, but once the small man disappears in the kitchen, she squeezes his shoulder.

"Gracias." The whisper is almost inaudible, and it's then that Kurt realizes how the rest of the crowd has gradually returned to their meals and he's the only one still staring.

Although Blaine's returned smile makes it hard not to, he slaps himself mentally. So much for not making a fool of himself.

Maria sets off towards a newly occupied table, and the atmosphere full comes back to its former self. The clatter of forks and plates fills the air alongside the hum of people's conversations. It's the only sound Kurt registers, sitting there clumsily, his skin suddenly prickling, until…

"Perdon." _He_ is still standing by his table. Or rather, was. With a final "_Perdon_," the dark-haired waiter-slash-mechanic-slash-_Blaine_ heads to the kitchen entrance.

And Kurt knows it's undeniably stupid and incredibly naïve, but – he can't shake off this _feeling_. Was the boy watching him all along, while he was busy concentrating his senses on the restaurant acoustics, or did he imagine the soft tingling at his temple once he realized Blaine's prolonged presence?

One way or another, Kurt has to stop – immediately.

Except he can't. Not when Blaine returns from the kitchen, a familiar object in his hands.

Honest to God, he's holding a _guitar_ as he walks towards the small, built-in stage in the front part of the restaurant. He sits down on the small chair and adjusts the microphone stand and Kurt's lost, lost, _lost_.

"¡Hola!" he greets cheerfully once the microphone's in the right position. " Me llamo Blaine."

His short introduction meets with a wave of cheering. The people closest to the stage are clapping, and some of the guests even whistle. Others proceed to erupt into loud whoops, all of which Kurt translates as, 'Yes, you are.'

Blaine laughs, nodding and thanking them, playing with his guitar strings absentmindedly. "Bien, entoces,…" he says playfully, and then the random, albeit melodic strumming progresses into a song introduction.

Visually, it seems to be fairly simple – Blaine just keeps switching between several chords, his fingers seeming to barely move. But Kurt can't judge the performance from an objective standpoint, not knowing much about guitar playing, so he just indulges himself in the sounds.

The song is unrecognizable. At first, Kurt thinks it's because of the gentle way in which it's played – slow at first and gradually building, reaching a crescendo beforeslowing down again. Blaine fumbles a few tImes, always grinning apologetically and then scrunching his forehead in an attempt to deepen his focus.

Kurt's kind of surprised when a thought of how long he's been playing flies through his head. Although he feels a little reproachful towards himself, he quickly assesses it as a positive sign. He has all summer, after all.

However, when Blaine opens his mouth, all previous thoughts are forgotten.

It's Spanish, of course. Understanding songs in Spanish had always been Kurt's weak spot, but something about Blaine's pronunciation gets him to understand every word. The lyrics are joyful, praising nature, its force and power and all the feelings it can evoke. It's folky and, much to Kurt's dismay, people in the restaurant start joining in, slowly drowning out the lead voice.

The song comes to the end much too soon. Applause and a loud "Gracias!" reverberate throughout the restaurant before another song starts.

Kurt feels like he could sit there listening until the sun went down – and he does. When Blaine ends his concert, the sky is already a mixture of pink and indigo.

Halfway through the show, Kurt managed to tear his eyes away and finally pursue the goal that led him to the restaurant in the first place: Pippa's educational dilemma. The foreign songs were a shockingly good inspiration – not only did he fulfill his daily quota, but he also figured out how to destroy several plot holes. And even when Blaine's back disappeared behind the kitchen door, he continued writing with a newfound enthusiasm. In spite of Kurt's original thoughts, which he can't let go of completely, the boy was actually a great influence.

Well. His voice was.

"I love your accent."

Kurt freezes – the same voice. He lifts his head in surprise and – yes, he was. Talking to him, that is.

"Am I that obvious?" he says after the initial shock fades away.

"I just took a guess." Blaine shrugs, smiling. "Your Spanish is actually great."

_Yeah, sure. No problema_ and an order for a coffee refill – that was surely enough evidence of Kurt's "great" Spanish skills.

"And you haven't even heard my French," Kurt teases, and oh, god, did he really say that? He feels the blood rushing to his face, filling his cheeks, reaching his nose. One would think that coming face-to-face with Blaine would leave him speechless, not encourage him to say every random thing on his mind.

"I'm Kurt!" He rushes to cover up his slip, willing the horrible blush to go away. He isn't a preteen girl, after all. This feels so out of character to him, though memories of Finn-gate begged to differ.

"Blaine." The other boy introduces himself again, this time solely for Kurt. The fact that his face hadn't fallen one bit since he'd approached Kurt's table makes for a great surge of hope. Kurt's stomach is suddenly full of butterflies and, if he could, he would honestly just slap himself till he returned to his strong-independent-glamorous mindset.

"Nice to meet you," he says instead. "It's always nice to hear English where one wouldn't expect it."

"I'm from the US, actually," Blaine admits, scratching his forehead bashfully. "I moved to Spain with my, um – my mother."

"Then I shouldn't be the one being complimented on my nice Spanish. Although I guess it kind of comes with the territory," Kurt says with a small smile. He doesn't want to underplay Blaine's effort, but he knows that, once a person's forced to adapt, there's no other choice than… ugh.

Why is there such a huge contrast between his nervous insides and his words? Yes, he's usually no shy flower, but he does want to make a good impression and currently feels like he's doing the opposite.

"Yeah, it does. I actually didn't know anything other than 'gracias' back when we came here," Blaine says, and from his still-grinning face, he doesn't seem to mind Kurt's self-perceived screw-ups at all.

"Blaine, ¿me puede ayudar?" The man from earlier returns to the dining room, looking in their direction. His hands are full of cardboard boxes of various sizes.

"Look, Kurt, I've got to go, but… I noticed you were here yesterday, so maybe… My English is getting pretty rusty. Is there a chance that you'll be here tomorrow, too?" Blaine asks, talking quickly and regularly flicking his eyes between Kurt and the older man.

"There's a good chance that I will be, yes," Kurt answers, his smile growing wider. This definitely can't be just his imagination.

"Okay, great! See you then." Blaine waves, hurrying towards the old man, then vanishing behind the doors once more.

With him go Kurt's restraints. He realizes he must look like a mad man, but… There weren't many reasons for such a face-splitting grin in a long time.


End file.
